The sound of a motorcycle echoed through empty fields where green corn once stood swaying in the ever present wind, now cut down to a brown stubble on the earth.
It was early spring and the grip of winter was finally lessening. Jim, seated on his 2007 BMW r1200GSA, carved arcs where rubber met road dancing through corners that bisected the fields and trees. He imparted a silent hello with his eyes as he scanned old farm houses with their barns and outbuildings.
He had never explored this part of the United States before and delighted in the hunt for new roads and scenes of rural America.
How long had it been since he last exercised his bike, he mused. Long enough to have a dead battery, he thought.
Why couldn’t he ever remember to hook the battery tender up? This was his third battery in as many years. A chink in his armor. A character flaw that made him Jim.
“Concentrate on the road,” he screamed into his helmet. A squirrel darted across trying to commit suicide by motorcycle.
Jim’s line in the corner paused and his BMW stood up ever so slightly, like it was taking a look for itself. That was all well and good but now Jim, and his bike, were on a line that would exit the road. And beyond lay a freshly scraped irrigation ditch.
Jim instinctively shoved the bike into a tighter turn with his hands and arms then lowered his body to the side and below the seat. He kept the bike tall, presenting as much tire patch to the road as possible. He gripped the bike now only with hands and boots taking a tighter turn and only just recovered from the little beast’s passage.
This quick little maneuver saved him, but left his heart pounding in his chest and adrenaline pumping through his body. Time to stop and breath for a while, he thought. He needed to let his body come down off this adrenaline high before he made another mistake.
God, stop thinking so much, he scolded himself, just find a turnoff!
Up ahead he saw a turn and what looked like a little parking area big enough for a truck and trailer. It was probably meant as a staging area or a place to turn around those absolutely enormous farm machines.
Jim had witnessed these mechanical monstrosities last fall, when the farmers were harvesting their feed corn.
He slowed down, with the pressure of two fingers on his front brake lever and stood up as his bike moved from asphalt to gravel. Eyes on the path ahead Jim rolled his bike forward and kept his balance by shifting weight from one foot to the other, careful to keep as much tread on the ground as possible.
He brought the bike to a stop on a hard piece of dirt where the gravel had been swept away and sat down, balancing the bike with the tips of his toes touching the ground.
Even Jim’s height of six feet wasn’t enough to allow both feet to lie flat on the ground. It was either one foot or the toes of both. And on this unfamiliar patch of earth, he needed a bit more stability to keep his BMW upright.
His left foot pushed the kickstand down and the sound of the motor died with its decent. Then he carefully leaned the big bike to the left until the stand rested firmly on the ground. Posting his left leg on the ground, Jim hopped and slid and managed to clear his right leg over the saddle.
This wasn’t a cruiser. He couldn’t swing his leg over like a 12 year old on a BMX dirt bike. No. This was an adventure bike and it was both tall and heavy.
The tank, which loomed over an air-cooled boxer engine, held over eight gallons of gas. And, the front and rear shocks were taller than the more common 1200GS’s. The GSA’s suspension had more travel and allowed for more “adventure.”
Still, the bike was a wonder to ride, on-road or off. The Germans knew what they were doing. The balance and center of gravity were perfect and while its primary function was that of an adventure or touring bike the GSA was also at home on a track and in corners.
“Thanks baby,” Jim mumbled to himself as he put all his weight on the center stand foot-stop and hoisted the motorcycle up into an upright position. “That… was a close one.”
He turned and pulled the keys out of the ignition. Then, with his right hand, he depressed a small lever in the chin of his helmet and slid the modular front-quarter of it up and out of his line of sight.
Breathing cool air, Jim sighed. “That’s better.”
While the helmet protected him from bugs and dirt, it also insulated him from a fresh supply of cool air. His Arai helmet did better at funneling air to his face and lungs, but temperature this time of year was cold, and on a long trip like this the silver Shoei was a better choice.
Jim unsnapped a button and slid the helmet strap through its buckle before pulling the helmet free from his head. He left the helmet balancing on the seat and walked to the rear of the bike where he inserted the key from the ignition into the lock of the top-box, turned it, and popped the lid open.
He grabbed a bottle of water from within and then quenched his thirst while taking a better look at his surroundings. Jim scanned the immediate area and then broadened his field of view to take in more and more.
“Fives and twenty fives.” He mumble. “Old habits die hard.”
